by Kris Neville
“When you’re rested—” he let Walt and Julia go through the door in front of him—“when you’re rested, we’ll want to see both of you again. You said something, Julia, about making us all like you were: with all those unusual abilities?”
“Later. Please, later. I’m just too tired to think.” She held onto Walt’s arm possessively.
But do, she wondered, do I remember enough details to enable a surgeon to install a bridge?
A WELTER of other thoughts and impressions seethed to the surface of her leaden brain: The international situation . . . if nothing changes . . . for the last few years, there is an equilibrium . . . working for genuine peace . . . War is farther off every year . . . But to interfere? When people can still be convinced of so many, so many falsehoods? Patterns of hatred (like of superstition), are they (aren’t they: who can say? would the bridge not join but divide, upset the equilibrium?) are the patterns of hatred too deep, and too dangerous, and too entrenched in our generation?
She was tired; but out of the exhaustion, the weariness, the fatigue, she suddenly realized with startling clarity, like the chime of a great, flawless bell, ringing hope and promise: That it will come; the next development of man will come, lies waiting in the future (near or far) to be born, to be born: will come. When mankind is ready, it will come: will come.
A wave of exultation filled her. Oh, be ready soon! she cried. Be ready soon!
“I, I don’t think I can, can be of any help on that, General,” she said.
“After you get some rest—”
“No,” she said. Did she remember enough to guide a surgeon? “No, I’m afraid I’ve forgotten too thoroughly.”
The general helped them into the car.
She snuggled over against Walt. She didn’t want to think at all. She dreaded the next few days. She wished they were over.
She pulled Walt’s head down and kissed his swollen lips. He tried to draw back in surprise. She held on. The car began to move. He resisted and then relaxed and then cooperated. She was deliriously in love with him.
Drifting to sleep she thought: After next week, we’ll be able to get away and go home. We’ll settle down right away. We’ll buy the Castle Place; he can fix it up and work around the yard in the evenings, and I’ll put pink and white curtains in the kitchen. And there’s Beck’s Hardware Store. I’ll have to see about making the down payment on it the first day we get back.
There will be Saturday teas. Walt will look stunningly handsome in a double breasted suit in Church on Sunday . . .
. . . movies twice a week . . . dancing once a month . . . I’ll let him go moose hunting in Canada every single year if he wants to.
She snuggled closer.
He’s so innocent, she thought. He’ll have to be educated (not so much as the other mutants, because he’s already learned a little): but not more than it is good a husband should be.
My, she thought, feeling his arms around her. My, he has strong muscles.
But he won’t be any trouble. He’ll handle like a lamb. I can manage him.
She smiled and was asleep.
THE END
AS HOLY AND ENCHANTED
She was as fragile as a snowflake. Around her there was the heady, unspoiled spirit of Nature, and when Nick saw her he forgot about the petty troubles at the garage, forgot about the bustle and noise of the city, ignored the stinks and ugly sights of a giant metropolis—and found his way to the sorrow and heartbreak of an impossible love!
FOR HIM spring mornings had a character all their own, an indefinable essence that the mornings of the other seasons never had. And the best spring morning of all was a Sunday spring morning—when he did not go to the shop, when he awoke in time to hear the sleepy chirping of the English sparrows in the false dawn, when he loved to lie in bed, sleepy-warm, and smell the sweet, new air and dream lazy dreams.
Then when, beyond the skyline of dingy buildings, the heavens began to color rose, he would get out of bed and yawn and expect, secretly, that today something very fine and wonderful was going to happen to him.
Those mornings, he would put on his only suit, somewhat shiny from use, his favorite blue tie, a clear-sky blue, clean his shoes and, whistling, hurry out to meet the sun so that he would not lose another minute of the wonderful new day.
He always went first to the park. The park, before all the people came, was very quiet and peaceful. There was soft, lacy dew on the grass. And always, as he felt the trees around him, he imagined that he was far away from the city and in the midst of some delicate virginity, pure and sweet. The noises of civilization faded. The squirrels came out and chattered in the treetops. Occasionally he would hear the soft plunk of an acorn dropped from above. The birds’ songs were clear. And the little, burbling fountain was surrounded by cooing pigeons who sidled away, unafraid, to let him pass.
One particular Sunday morning, the fairest yet of all the year, when he came to the edge of his park, he was aware, more intensely than ever before, that this was the day for the strange, wonderful thing to happen to him. As he walked along, the knowledge became unbearably sweet within him, and it made the inside of his nose tickle with emotion.
The sun was fronted by the skyline, for it was newly risen. The air was fresh as only the air of spring can be. It was filled with the scents of new-born flowers and the long ago.
He stepped from the gravel path upon which he had been walking and onto the springy grass; his mind was alive with the delicious sensation of secrecy. He imagined that this, his short-cut to the burbling fountain, was mysteriously concealed from others and belonged to him alone among mortals.
He did not walk either too slow or too swift; slow enough to be conscious of all the sounds around him and all the little, life movements; swift enough to satisfy his urge to hurry on and meet the wonderful thing that would be sure to be waiting for him among the pigeons.
All at once, rudely shattering his thoughts, he heard an unusual, frantic fluttering from a treetop to his left. He turned his head in time to see a brown sparrow falling toward the earth, desperately trying to break its fall.
At the first instantaneous image, he felt sorry for it; scarcely with thought, he walked to where it lay on the grass, hoping there might be some way he could help it.
The sparrow was panting and, seeing the man-form, it fluttered its wings in fear.
He bent quickly to pick it up; it cheep-cheeped shrilly. He was very careful not to hurt it. He could feel its tiny heart beating against the palm of his hand. Gently as he could, he felt of its wings and its legs to see if they were broken and was relieved to find that they were not.
“Hello.”
The girl’s voice was very sweet and very startling. Sweet because of some melodious quality, like that of a native ballad singer; startling because he had thought himself alone.
In quick surprise, he opened his hand; the sparrow fluttered and then flew. He stared at his hand, at the disappearing bird, and then turned to the speaker.
“You did fix him,” the girl said. “I was sure you were going to, and that’s why I spoke.”
He felt a shuddery current, something like fear, although strangely pleasant, creep up his spine. She was a beautiful girl, lithe and slender, and straight as a Georgia pine. Her hair was sunrise gold; her eyes, the brown of hazel nuts; and her teeth, uncovered by lips dewy with youth, flashed white in a quick, easy smile that reminded him of polar snow.
“I’m Mona,” she said, holding out her slim, white hand to him.
Slowly he reached out to meet the hand. It felt warm and firm in his. He continued to stare blankly into her face, and then, realizing that he was being very impolite, he felt his face begin to redden.
“Hello,” he said, for want of anything better to say.
She withdrew her hand; he felt the absence of it sharply.
“What’s your name?” she asked. Her voice was like no voice he had ever heard; it was open and vibrant and warm and friendly and thrilling. I
t had just the trace of an accent.
“I’m—I’m Nick.”
“Nick,” she said, “Nick,” drawing out the word as if she were taking it apart with her voice and finding all the hidden layers of meaning in it. “I like that name.” Then, seeing that he was still watching her, she smiled with pleasure and pirouetted skillfully on the grass, making her snow-white skirt billow out with the movement, holding her arms wide apart. She ended up facing him again. “It is a beautiful dress, isn’t it?”
He said, “Yes; it’s a beautiful dress.”
She laughed, and her laughter was like little bells, or like the silvery tinkle of a fast-flowing mountain brook. “I’m glad,” she said. “I thought it would be what you liked.” She tossed her head, making her hair flash out around it in a momentary, magic halo.
“You’re—beautiful, too,” he said. Immediately, he was chilled by the thought that she might turn and run away like a frightened faun.
“Do you really think so?”
“You’re more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said that. It just—sort of came out.”
“I’m glad it did.” She laughed again, and then she was beside him, her hand lightly resting upon his arm. He could smell the flower-fresh nearness of her; his throat swelled when she looked up into his face.
“I hoped you’d like me,” she said.
He felt lost in her eyes, her beautiful, brown eyes. He said nothing, for there was nothing to say, and a numbness was in his mind.
“Are you working today?” she asked.
Behind the numbness, there were puzzles, but looking down at her, he was sure they were not essential, and he wished they would go away; the important thing was just to answer her and hear her voice again.
“No, Mona,” he said.
She wrinkled her brow prettily. “Oh; I thought you were working . . . When I saw you here, I thought you were, and that’s why I knew to speak to you, but I’m glad you’re not . . . I have a whole week to myself, and it’s wonderful, isn’t it?”
He said, “I think it’s very wonderful.”
‘“Where were you going, just now?” she asked, widening her eyes in innocent questioning.
“Me?” he said, and then he was embarrassed for saying it, because of course she meant him. “Oh, o—h. Just walking. Over to the fountain. The pigeons all come down to drink, early in the morning, before the people come . . .” Her smile was warm. “You know the fountain with the pigeons around it?” he finished, having lost the thread of thought in her smile.
“No,” she said. “I don’t belong here.” And then she said, as if it explained everything, “I belong in Nebraska and Australia. I just came here for a week before I have to go on down to Australia.”
“Oh,” he said.
“Which way is the fountain? I’d love to see it; it must be quite pretty if you like it.”
“It’s—it’s just a fountain . . . I’ll—I’ll show it to you, if you want me to.”
“Of course I do.”
And the two of them, her hand lightly on his arm, began to walk through the park.
“You’re the first one I’ve met down here,” she said. “I was so in hopes I’d meet some of us; it’s lonely with no one to talk to.”
“Yes,” he said, “I know. I’m often lonely.”
Her eyes turned serious-sympathetic. “I’m sorry,” she said, and her voice was full of understanding in a way he had never imagined possible. “I’m very sorry, Nick . . .” And then, with a little shout of joy, “Oh! That must be your wonderful fountain!”
“Yes,” he said. Only now it did not seem so wonderful. Tie wanted to show her all the things more wonderful. He thought of the sunrise on tall mountains, and the flat, level blue of the ocean off Hawaii, and the burning of pine logs in a New England fireplace when the snow lay piled outside and the air was sharp, and the high, tumbling waterfalls in Africa that broke into rainbow spray, and all the other marvelous things he had read about during all his life.
She ran from him, scattering the startled pigeons, who fluttered a few feet and immediately resumed their endless search for food, to sit down on the old stone rim of the fountain. She dipped her hand lightly in the water; she drew it along with a free, graceful movement that was like a caress. “It feels so nice,” she said. “I like water very much. Clear water. Like rain.” She stared dreamily into it. “I work with water every day—almost—and yet: It’s always so beautiful.”
He had not moved. “You’re beautiful,” he said again in child-like wonder, knowing that to say it would not make her run away.
“Silly! You weren’t listening to what I said!” She flipped some of the water from her hand, playfully. Then, when she saw it hit on his suit, she sprang up . . .
“Oh! I’m sorry, Nicky. I didn’t mean to get your suit all wet.” She stood before him, looking up at him. “And such a pretty suit. You won’t be mad at me, will you? because then you’d go away and I wouldn’t have anyone to talk to.”
He felt the lump in his throat; it had been there for a long time. “Mona,” he said, “I don’t think I’ll ever want to go away.”
“You say the nicest things.” She took his hand and drew him, with gentle pressure, to the stones of the fountain. The pigeons, cooing softly, opened a little isle for them that closed as soon as they had passed.
“Sit down, Nicky,” she said.
For a moment she sat there beside him, silent, staring into the unquiet water, seeing the flicker and gleam of darting goldfish outlined sharply against the green of the gently waving moss. The falling water sprayed and dimpled the surface, making the fish seem fluidly unreal.
He watched the mirrored mood on her face.
“I think you have one of the best jobs,” she said.
Instinctively, he looked away from her and stared into the burbling fountain, too. Thinking of his job made him briefly miserable. His face grew hot. Then he was afraid she would see that he was ashamed. That made it all the worse. He hoped she was still staring into the water.
Looking back at her, he saw that she seemed dainty, fragile, somehow like a snowflake or a delicate crystal or something that would shatter with the first rumble of horizon thunder. He knew he must never say anything she did not want him to say—or she might go away, and he would never see her again.
“It’s all right,” he said.
“I think it’s the most wonderful job,” she insisted gently.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I suppose it really is.”
Suddenly she asked, “Did you notice the sunrise this morning?”
“Yes,” he said.
“It was a beautiful sunrise. Robert does them for Nebraska—do you know him?—and he’s very good—but I don’t know: this one, this morning: I think they must use more colors, down here.”
He felt his throat constrict. He felt cold inside. He said, “I think they must,” and waited.
“Yes, I guess they do,” she said, smiling up at him. “Oh! I’m so glad I met you!” She held out both of her hands, and he took them in his.
“Hazel eyes,” he said, “beautiful hazel eyes.”
“Nicky,” she said, “could you get off? I have the whole week here.”
“I-I—”
“And you could show me the city—if you wanted to—that would be fun—don’t you think so?—do you often go into the city at all?—and take me dancing, and—it would be just wonderful if you could.”
She sprang away from him and danced around him, laughing, humming a little, sad-funny tune that he had never heard. “I’m a very good dancer.” And she spun in a series of intricate steps, executed with happy grace.
When she ceased, her cheeks were rosy from her efforts, and her breath came quickly. “Come.” She held out her hand. “Let’s walk, and you can talk to me, and I can talk to you, and neither of us will be lonely.”
He stood, and she came to him. “Lead me,” she said. “Show me your wonderful par
k.”
They began to walk; and, as they walked, she chattered happily, occasionally looking up at him for approval, talking of the trees and the birds and the wind and the grass and the change of the seasons. She talked in youth and enthusiasm. Once she paused to laugh at a gray squirrel, and it looked down at her quizzically, over the acorn it was holding in its forepaws.
He listened and half listened and sometimes only heard the sweet melody of her voice, rising and falling, reminding him of the pleasant wind in the scented trees and the quiet sea.
Time moved, or stood still, or was not; it did not matter.
Then, in their aimless walk, they came to the edge of the park and looked out on the city.
“Oh! How very big and pretty. And exciting! Do you often go out there, Nicky?”
“Quite often,” he said, wanting to go back into the park, afraid that the city would break and shatter her with its many muted rumbles.
“It must be fun—to be where you’re able to. You’ll show it to me, won’t you? You promised, remember? And tell me about it? About the buildings? And the streets?”
“Yes,” he said, taking her hand; she squeezed in soft, answering pressure. “If you really want to see it.”
Like two little children, hand in hand, they walked out into the city.
Their feet made the sharp clatter of the city; the Sunday traffic made the subdued roar of the city; the people’s voices made the dry-sadness of the city.
Her questions came quickly, tumbling over themselves in flying curiosity, jumping with the speed of thought from subject to subject. He answered them all, softly, quietly, as if talking to a little girl who was first seeing the city and trying to know it all in a single hour. It gave him a sweet sense of belonging, and her eager wonder at his knowledge filled him with a pride and a joy he had never known.
“Here,” he said, pointing to a new-shiny building, with doors gleaming with brass and windows sparkling with sunshine. “This. It’s built on the very spot where an ancient, Spanish monastery once stood.”